Playing With Fire
by purplepop07
Summary: Bree Tylk and Marvel Corvan were miraculously allowed to live after the 74th Hunger Games. When they are are sent to District 12 to start a new life, they play a little too much with the "fire" of the Rebellion started by Katniss. Let the REAL games begin
1. Chapter 1: Marvel

The late-summer air is warm and clean, the leaves already beginning to change color. The heat isn't quite as unbearable as it was last week; Bree and I had to leave open all of the windows to let in some cool air, but a few bums broke in our small house, rummaged through the cabinets, and stole our food. Fortunately, I have a meager, low-paying job in mining that can somewhat support the two of us. My skills from training carry me through real life when I need to hunt to get us some extra food. Sure, it's illegal, but it's not like other people don't do it. I often find small, human-sized tears in the bottom of the barbed wire fence that is never really electrocuted like they say it is. Today wasn't a hunting day for me though; it wasa workday. I return home from the mines, once again, making the mere salary that barely supports Bree and I (let alone the family we might one day plan to have).

We have made ourselves virtually unrecognizable, hiding in the shadows of the Seam—though it is quite evident we don't look like the traditional Seam people with their straight black hair, stormy grey eyes, and olive skin. I have made sure to grow a shadowy beard, which is no more than gruff stubble, and keep my hair longer. Bree can't really do much, considering her fiery auburn locks are easily recognizable to even the blind. She normally just fixes it up in a bun and dresses plainly like the rest of the people in this God-forsaken district.

I'm seriously disliking Snow's decision to send us out here to District 12. First, I'm not accustomed to the low-class way of life they are used to living here. I hate to brag, but my family is of high status—we are older money than the Tylks, actually. Living off of half of what I am used to living off of in District 1 does not make for a happy man. When I first started my job, they called me "Baby Hands" because of how soft my hands were from not having done really any work my entire life. I wasn't ready to change my lifestyle. Secondly, how can he expect that people won't recognize us and start to rebel, asking, "Why did the other children have to compete and die when these kids are living proof that you can revive them?" I guess Snow has his own motives and reasoning, though, and I guess I'd just be playing with fire if I were to mess with his system. And touching Snow's fire is a sure way to get burned alive.

I also feel pretty bad for Bree. It's clear that she has never touched a pan or stove before in her life, probably because she always had her maid fix her food. It's quite sad to see her frustration in the kitchen every night as she burns food in an earnest attempt to make something somewhat edible. Tonight, we are having venison stew from the deer that I brought in last night.

I open the door, sending me straight into the kitchen. "Hey, Bree," I say, taking off my coal-dust-covered boots and shirt.

She is facing the stove, trying to simmer the sausage in broth when she accidentally knocks the pot over. "Damn!" She exclaims, exasperated. "I spent all day on that…and it actually wasn't overcooked."

"Sorry…" I say quietly as I head into the bedroom and slide on a dirty white t-shirt.

"No, no…It's ok. I was just distracted by…other things." She wipes her hands on her dress and grabs a wet rag to clean up the floor.

I watch her closely and flatly say, "You know you can't visit him, Bree." She knows that I am referring to Peeta Mellark, of course. Since both he and Katniss Everdeen won the Games (a feat in that of itself), they have had the luxury of living in the Victor's Village with their families and that despicable Haymitch Abernathy. The Village is basically set apart from the rest of the district; if you were to go there, you would forget that it was part of District 12 because of the sheer grandeur of the place. Even if Bree, who loves Peeta, were to risk seeing him there, she would be recognized easily and we would be punished by President Snow.

She hears my words, but doesn't listen to them. "This floor is horrible." She scrubs the floor harder.

I look down at the pitiful splintered planks that board the floor. It's one of the best houses in the Seam, and it's the best we can do right now with the amount of money I'm making. I know where she is coming from though, considering that we are used to nice, laminated hardwood floors. I walk over to her and take her hand in both of mine. "He loves Katniss," I say quietly. "Not you."

She rips her hand out of my grip. "He has a name! Damn it Marvel, will you just say it? Peeta! There I said it! It's not another sick game for us all to play in! It's just us in this stupid, decrepit district and nothing will ever change anymore!"

My face falls, and I know she can sense my shock because she immediately follows up with, "I-I'm sorry. I'm not making any sense at all. It's just…the Games were not what I expected at all. I thought it'd be easy, Marv. I thought it'd be easy…so easy…"

"I shouldn't have said what I said."

"No," she says to the floor. "It's okay. I needed to hear it. This whole ugly, terrible thing has been plaguing me since day one."

I shake my head. "I…well…as much as it hurts me to say it, I honestly think he loves you. I don't know why I said that he loves Katniss—"

"Because he does." She looks at me with doe eyes now, and I feel horrible for having randomly said what I said. It's not necessarily true. Only half-true.

"Bree…" I groan softly.

She throws the rag away from her and wraps her arms around my neck like she's going to kiss me, but I don't deserve it. "Bree…" I repeat, but she touches her lips to my mouth. I try to change the subject to the question that's been haunting me for four months. Our lips still resting on each other's, I begin to speak. "Bree?"

Her eyes are closed. "Mmm?"

"I love you."

"Mhm."

Her response is making me quite nervous. "Remember when I was dying, and you told me that you loved me?"

"What?"

I push her off of me now, and my tone grows surprisingly deep and assertive. "I'm serious."

Bree starts to laugh, her clear voice echoing throughout the small house. "Serious about what?"

"Do you love me or not?"

"Well of course," she says, rolling her eyes.

"Would you marry me if I asked you to?"

The smile is wiped off her lips as quickly as it had come. A long pause fills the air, leaving the question hanging over both of us like a knot of unity on one side, and a noose on the other. "I…"

I answer quickly. "Do you really love me then?"

"Yes, Marvel! Why are you interrogating me?"

"Because I would really like to start a family with you someday. I'll save and make more money in a few years, and we can live with the Merchants. Our kids will be better off there, well fed, somewhat clean," I say with childish ambition. "I just want to do it all under the proper conditions first."

She runs her small, thin fingers through my hair and sighs. "Marvel, we still have so much life to live," she says softly. "We are teenagers. I agree that we should wait again until marriage, but really, we have so much time to make these decisions. Things might…_change _between now and then."

I stand and help her up. "Maybe for you," I begin, kneeling on one knee and holding her palm in mine. "But there's one thing I know, Breelle Elispeth Tylk, and it's that I will love you always and forever."

Then, I pop the question that I have wanted to ask her forever… "Will you marry me?"


	2. Chapter 2: Bree

I close the door gently behind me and step out into the cool, rainy night, wearing just my dirty mid-thigh length light-pink dress with long sleeves (which I cuffed), brown, leather peasant oxfords, and my long white jacket. As I run silently and quickly to no direction in particular, I begin to hate myself fervently for what I've just done.

"Will you marry me?" was the question Marvel had asked me before I had simply left him kneeling on the rough wooden floor. He had called out to me, "Wait!" before I simply just left.

What a horrible person I am! Marvel promised to protect me in the arena; he had suffered in the hands of President Snow at my cost. He had provided for me after the Games, risking his health and sanity for me. And here I am doing him the ultimate disrespect; I leave him when he gives me his whole heart and soul.

If I were him, I would leave me.

Better yet, I would expose me.

This black-blue night is eerily silent, which I remark when I slow my run down to a brisk walk. The rain has gotten even heavier, drenching my thick hair so that it virtually offers no warmth. Rubbing my hands together in order to warm them, I find myself miles away from home and in Victor's Village. I have no idea how I got here. I look around at the dozens of houses made for the many victors that never existed. Except for three homes that are brightly lit from the inside, illuminating their perfectly manicured lawns kept by the groundskeepers. I slow my pace to stroll casually and slowly in order to peer through some of the windows of the identical homes.

In the first house, I only see the light of about two lanterns in the living room. I assume that house must belong to the drunkard of a man Haymitch Abernathy, the mentor to Katniss and Peeta during the 74th Games.

I stroll past the second home, seeing a little girl with blond pigtails carrying a mug of something, wearing a neat blue nightgown and fuzzy slippers. _That must be Katniss's little sister, _I think, walking onto the next home.

The next home is the most brightly lit house, and as I look up I can see a room with painting easels all over the place. I can't really get a glimpse at the paintings; all I can see is that they are of vivid colors so lifelike that they evoke goosebumps on my skin. Or is that just the rain?

Something in the corner of that room catches my eye. A flash of blond hair. A glimpse of red, plaid flannel pajama pants. A masculine hand grabbing a long, thin paintbrush from its cup of water. A flash of hope crosses my mind. I do the second stupidest thing I've done today and decide to go to the house. Instead of ringing the doorbell in the conventional fashion most people would've chosen, I knock heavily on the dark, smooth wooden door. Hurried footsteps thud down the stairs as I relentlessly bang on the door.

Disgruntled mumbling comes from just the other side of the door and when it opens, surprise smacks me in the face (even though I had expected this in the first place). Arms crossed, Peeta stands staring at me. He is shirtless, and I see how well he has recovered since the Games. That is, except for that prosthetic leg. I note that he still needs work on standing with that, seeing how his stance wavers back and forth ever-so-slightly. "Bree?" he asks earnestly, eyebrows raised in extreme surprise and, simultaneously, elation.

I open my mouth to speak, but my voice produces nothing. Instead, I just stand there looking dumb, wet, and cold.

"A-are you okay? You look cold. Here," he says, taking my icy hand in his own warm, dry one. "Come inside."

I walk inside and take in the magnificence of the home. The house has some blue accents here and there, like the curtains and the couch. A tiered chandelier hangs in the receiving parlor, where I stand now. Large portraits of noteworthy presidents (only two, might I add) and mayors of District 12 hang. Peeta leads me further into the open kitchen and living room, where he grabs a quilt and kindly—but carefully—wraps it around my shoulders. He rests his hand upon my upper back as he leads me into the kitchen, where I sit on a barstool at the counter.

Peeta silently fixes me a cup of some sort of hot, sweet, chocolate-smelling concoction with whipped cream on top. As he sets it in front of me, I know he sees my skeptical expression because he says, "It's called hot chocolate. I had it in the Capitol. It's awesome."

I take a small sip of the stuff, and instantly, a sweet, swirly flavor fills my mouth. I can't help but moan in pleasure. "This…this is…wow. Just wow," I say, an uncontrollable smile spreading across my face. This is one of the most genuine smiles I have had since before the Games.

Peeta laughs heartily and wipes the frothy white mustache from my upper lip with his thumb. "I knew you'd like it," he says quietly. Then, the smiles are gone, and it's just us; me staring at my cup of hot chocolate, and him staring at me. He then breaks the silence. "Why did you come here?"

Oh boy. "I…Well, it's a long story."

I look up and see him stares at me intensely. I had forgotten how beautiful his almost unnaturally blue eyes were. He raises an eyebrow. "I have time."

"Well," I begin, looking down again. "Marvel asked me to marry him."

The silence overcomes us again, leaving my statement hanging ominously in the air. Peeta breaks the silence once more. "And what did you say?"

"Nothing."

"Come on, Bree. You had to have had some sort of verbal reaction to that. You just don't get asked to marry someone and then not have something to say," he says impatiently.

I set down my mug of hot chocolate and look him directly in his hardened eyes. "No, Peeta. I _literally _said nothing. I just walked out of the house and left him kneeling there. I didn't know what to do. I just found myself here."

I think he's realized the coldness of what I've done to Marvel. Peeta softens and grips the countertop gently. "Wow. That's…not really the best approach to take, honey. Do you want to marry him?"

"I—I don't know."

"But you love him…?" he asks. "Don't think I haven't seen the replay of the Games. You told him you loved him."

"I do love him," I say, once again lowering my eyes in shame.

"Then why not say yes?"

"Because," I whisper as I my hand on top of his. "Because there are other…conflicts."

He gets what I am hinting at, because he moves his hand away from mine and walks to the window in front of the sink. His back facing me, he speaks. "I…I _have_ been quite lonely in these past few months."

I can't believe that. "You? Everyone loves you, Peeta."

"Yeah, everyone except for the people I love most."

"Which would be?"

Peeta whips his head around. "My parents…My brothers…Katniss," he hesitates. "_You._"

"How can you say that? Here I am in front of you, in your house!" I cry angrily.

"Bree, I thought you were _dead_! But you've been alive and in District 12 all this time, and you never had the decency to come and visit me so that I could know you're okay? So that I wouldn't have horribly vivid nightmares every night about Cato stabbing you over and over and over again? So that I wouldn't cry almost every night, feeling guilty that I had allowed you to leave Katniss and me alone in that cave as you went off and died?" He is bright red in rage now, and I grow afraid because I've never seen him this way. "So yes," he continues. "I suppose you could understand why I would be upset with you!"

This is enough to throw me off the edge, so I start crying like a blubbering buffoon. "I just…"

"You didn't think!" he cries, but when he realizes how his tone has affected my already crappy mood, he softens his tone slightly. "You don't think, just like how you didn't think when Marvel asked you to marry him."

"Thanks, Peeta," I sob. "Thanks for making me feel even worse about myself." I get up to leave, but he grabs my hand gently.

Desperation is clearly in his voice. "Bree, wait," he pleads. "I'm so sorry; I've just been on edge lately. Stay the night, so I at least know you have somewhere to sleep."

I stop sniveling and wipe my nose on my sleeve. "Okay."

"I don't really have any girl clothes for you to sleep in," he says lightly, making me laugh a little. "You can borrow some of mine."

I follow him upstairs to his huge room, where he grabs a pair of flannel pajama pants that are identical to his (except these ones are blue) and an oversized, v-neck white t-shirt. "Think this'll do? They'll probably be ginormous on you," he points out.

"Yeah, they're fine," I say quickly. "Where are your parents and brothers?"

"Asleep. They all sleep like sloths."

I slide on the nightclothes right in front of him; it's not like he hasn't seen me in my underwear before. "A perfect fit," I joke, seeing that both of the garments hang as though they are about to fall off of my body.

Peeta plays along, lightening the mood like always. "That's a good look on you, girl!" He smiles broadly, and I think that his smile might just be the best thing I've ever seen.

We sit on his bed, and begin to talk. I tell him all about what happened to Marvel and I at the Capitol, and tell him why I was so afraid to visit him after the Games. "What about you, Peeta? What happened to you and Katniss after the Hunger Games?"

His face grows serious, which makes him see, decades older, even though he is only a year and a half older than me. "Well, she told me that she didn't really love me. That basically everything that happened in the cave was a front so that we could survive," he shakes his head wistfully. "And to think she actually had me fooled that she loved me back."

I feel so sorry for him. At least I got somewhat of a shot at happily ever after with the boy I love, but Peeta got nothing. Nobody, not even his family, wanted to be bothered with him. I let him rest his head on my shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Peeta."

"You're here, though, Bree, and that's a consolation to me in the least."

"But you love Katniss more…"

"Correction," he declares, resting his hand on my thigh. "I've loved her longer."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that if I had a choice in the matter right now," he articulates carefully. "I would choose you. And I told you that in the cave."

I stroke his head in smooth strokes. "Why don't you have that choice?"

Peeta sighs in frustration. "It's complicated. My love for her kind of overshadows almost everything that is important to me. In addition to that, though, you have to add in the factor that we are supposed to be madly in love, so I can't choose what I want anymore. Even though I _do_ want Katniss."

"You make no sense."

He sits up now, staring me down. "I know."

And we just sit there, watching each other for a while, until he says, "You look like an angel, Bree."

"What?"

"You look like an angel. You're so beautiful, especially here, illuminated with nothing but the moonlight."

"You know," I start. "I was just thinking the exact same thing about you."

"Not me. But certainly you."

I crawl over to him, and he kisses my forehead gently. "Get some sleep," he says, picking me up suddenly and tucking me into his bed.

A surprisingly childish tone takes over me voice. "Stay here, with me."

He looks at me for a long moment, and then curls up under the covers, arms wrapped around me securely. It is in this exact moment when I realize that no other moment could be this perfect. Not being with Marvel. Not being in "heaven" when I died. I am meant to be here simply and innocently with Peeta. It's just him and me in our own angelic little world, and nothing else matters.


	3. Chapter 3: Peeta

I sleep for about three or four hours, and when I wake up, it is still dark out. I look at the digital clock on the nightstand across from us. _5:15_. Groaning, I glance down at the beautiful girl I had forgotten was sleeping in my arms. Soon, we'll have to return to our normal lives and pretend like none of this ever happened. Now that I know that Bree's alive, I can't imagine my life without her. I prop myself on one elbow and watch her sleep until she awakens, wide-eyed and frightened.

She looks around wildly and grips one hand onto the bed sheet and one onto my arm, digging her nails into my skin. "Peeta!"

"Bree! It's okay! I'm here!"

Immediately, she loosens her death-grip from my forearm and rests her head against my chest. "I had the most horrible dream. I dreamt that President Snow sliced you in half and set you alight."

I can't lie—a small gasp of shock comes from my mouth. "Why did he do that?"

"He said it was because you weren't supposed to live…"

I reflect upon this, breathe deeply for a long minute, and then intertwine my fingers with hers. "Well, let's both be glad it wasn't real. I'm right here, honey."

Bree looks up at me to meet my eyes, as I am still propped up on one elbow. "I know. Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being here. For being alive. For being with me," she whispers.

"Oh, Bree," I start, lowering my eyelids. She stares at me expectantly, so I decide to finish my statement. "You know that for as long as we are both alive, I'll be here for you."

She shakes her head. "I don't deserve you. No one really does. You're so perfectly kind, sweet, and _good_. You're good to everyone, even if they aren't good to you."

I consider this, and come to the conclusion that she's right. I was good to Katniss when she didn't even know me. I was good to my family when they always expressed their distaste for having me around, like I was some sort of disposable burden. I was good to Bree when she threw me over for Marvel. I _am _good to everyone. But then again, Bree is pretty special too.

I tap her shoulder lightly. "Bree, you underestimate what you can do to people."

"What are you talking about? And don't just give me the generic 'you're beautiful' shit," she snaps, shaking my hand off of her shoulder.

"Well, you're so quick-witted that it's basically hard to keep up with you. You outsmart even me in a conversation, and you speak with such eloquence and poise that it's hard to believe you're not the daughter of some great politician. Or even Snow himself," I say, joking on that last bit.

"You're lying."

"Nope. Go back and watch the interviews from the Games."

"Well, no one has ever complemented me on my wit before. All people ever see about me is my beauty or my hair. That's it. Isn't that pitiful?" she asks flatly.

"Yeah, it is. Be glad I'm not so shallow." A grin finds its way across my lips.

Bree closes her eyes and laughs lightly. "Yep, I'm glad."

Muteness overcomes us. Her presence mollifies the pain from the Games that I relive almost every night; the pain of being without Katniss. Last night was the first time in four months that I had slept without a nightmare. I don't want this moment to end, because when it does, I'll be nothing but a barren and painful reminder of what I had been when I was with Bree. Maybe it's a little too much for me to hope that things could be different, that I wouldn't have to worry about her safety when we are together or that I wouldn't still deeply care about Katniss.

Bree clears her throat. "I should probably leave," she starts, heavily-lashed eyelids drooping.

"No," I plead. "Stay."

This brings her gaze back up to me, and as I look into those milky-sweet brown eyes I know that there's nothing else I want than for her to stay here, with me, forever. She stutters. "I want…I mean, I should…"

I look her squarely in the eyes, answering her protest with a long, lingering kiss on her lips. Her eyes are wide at first, but then she melts into me. I become more aware of everything, relishing the soft touch of her full, soft, pink lips against mine. She laces her hands together at the nape of my neck and I wrap my own around her waist as we lie on the ever-softening bed.

Bree moves her lips against mine, moaning, "Peeta…"

I breathe heavily as she slides a warm, slim hand onto my bare pectoral. The skin on my entire body becomes prickly as a warm, intense longing fills me all the way down to the bone. I have become so lonely that I've forgotten what a_ real_ human touch feels like.

"Don't stop," I whisper, aching with desire. This sensuous, carnal being I am quickly becoming is not something I would've ever imagined myself as. I mean, sure, there were nights I spent alone where I found a way to be…well, _un_-lonely by myself, but this is so much more real, so much more human. So much better.

She kisses my chest first, lovingly and softly. Second by second, though, her kisses increase in intensity. I almost lose it when she rolls on top of me, kissing me down the path of blond hair leading from my navel to my groin. Scratch that, I lose it when she slides off my pajama pants and teases me by lightly tracing her fingers horizontally across my boxers.

Hungrily, I position myself on top of her and remove the thin white t-shirt from her body, examining the same lacy black bra that she wore in the Games. I wonder if she did this on purpose, just to tempt me, or if it were an uncanny coincidence. Either way, I basically rip the thing off of her body to expose the round, pert breasts hiding underneath it. She shudders in delight as I kiss slowly down the middle of her cleavage.

"God, Peeta," she breathes. "You're amazing. Where on Earth did you learn this?"

I continue to kiss her everywhere. "Shh…"

My fingers slide just underneath her underwear when the door is slammed open and my twin brothers Adric and Hetcher storm in. Bree lets out a yelp and covers herself with the sheet.

Adric's mouth drops open. "Shit, Peets! Didn't know we were interrupting something here!"

Hetcher stares lustfully at Bree, eyes burning right through the thin sheet that fails to conceal all of her chest. "Who's this…_gorgeous_ lady? You know I have a thing for redheads," he says, winking at me.

I am livid that they have interrupted possibly my only chance of really being with her. "Go away, both of you!"

One of them—I'm not sure which, because they look so much alike that it's hard to tell which is which—hollers, "I'm gonna tell Mom!"

"Don't tell Mom, okay? I'll…We'll stop," I assure them frantically.

This seems to have satisfied them, because they shrug their shoulders simultaneously and leave out of the room as abruptly as they had come.

An exasperated sigh comes from my throat I flop face-first on the bed. I relax when I feel Bree's smooth, now completely naked body pressed belly-down on top of my bare back.

"I saw you painting from the window last night," she begins in a sultry voice. "Do you mind showing me what it is?"

I shake my head furiously, the sheets rubbing against the shadowy stubble on my cheek. "I don't really want you to see it, it's kind of terrible." Which is somewhat true. Almost all of my paintings are about the Hunger Games, mostly because it helps me to sleep a little bit easier at night by releasing those memories onto canvas.

Her face is pressed over my shoulder now, mouth grazing against my ear. "Please?"

I can't say no to her, especially when she uses that voice in this context. "Fine," I mutter to the sheets. "But get some clothes on…even though I don't want you to..."

She gets off of my back and jumps around in childish joy. "Yay!"

When will I ever learn how to resist this girl?


	4. Chapter 4: Marvel

A sliver of sunlight slices through the barrier of clouds and shines on my face. This tells me that it's time to get out of bed.

"Get out of bed, Marvel," I mumble to myself, slowly swinging my feet over the edge of the small bed and onto the floor. "Walk, Marvel." My feet trudge along the splintering wood floor as I bring myself to our bathroom. I look into the coal-dust-covered mirror and see a dirty reflection of myself staring back at me. The visage is unkempt; its disheveled, chin-length curls shoot this way and that. Its sunken face is unshaven, and has grown more of a beard than usual. The brown eyes have grown dull and lifeless in their hollowed, black-rimmed containers. And all of this happened in the course of just one night.

I hang my head and grip the sink in agony, not being able to look at this hollow shell of a man I have become. The rage runs vehemently through my veins like blazing fire, and it takes over me. I rip my hands through my hair and violently grope it, letting out an anguished and enraged cry. I'm angry. Angry at myself. Angry at President Snow. Angry at the Hunger Games. Angry at Bree…

Angry at Peeta.

How could she love him, when I'm the one who gave her everything? I surrendered my heart, my soul, my well-being, _everything_ just to get her to love me, but in the end, I still failed. Just when I thought she would return my affections—just when I thought things were going fairly well, she leaves me without even a formal goodbye. That's the least she could've given me.

I've come to the conclusion: I'm turning over a new leaf. I find a pair of scissors in the cabinet and begin cutting. I'm cutting anything on my head, really. Just using the scissors to shed off everything I've done to try to get her to love me. Dark, silky brown curls fall to the floor like petals from a flower; they lie defeated at my feet. I whip out a switchblade and shaving cream and begin to shave my face.

When I am finished, I wipe the dirty mirror with my sleeve to look at the new me. I look much more clean-cut—almost as good as I looked before I left for the Games. A relieved smile crosses my face as though my hair and beard were a ball and chain holding me back.

I dress and head off to the mines, clocking in early so that I can leave early. When I reach to grab my pickaxe, I accidentally knock over some of the others.

A raspy voice calls out angrily to me. "Watch it, asshole!"

My head whips around as I try to match this voice to its carrier, who is a tall, olive-skinned young man who looks like he is about eighteen years old. Something is vaguely familiar about him, but I am not quite sure what. He walks over to me and assertively puffs out his chest. "The name's Gale. Gale Hawthorne."

"Hey, man," I say calmly. "Don't want any problems. My mistake."

Gale takes me in for a second, undoubtedly eyeing my appearance which is so different than the other miners', when an unexpected half-smile crosses his face. "I'm just messin' with you."

"Oh," I reply nervously, suddenly recognizing him from the replay of the Games, where he had been interviewed as Katniss's cousin. "You're that girl Katniss's cousin, right?"

He clears his throat pointedly. "Uh, actually, that's a funny story."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. Just another bowl of shit concocted by the Capitol. We're really good…erm...friends, though."

By his tone, I can definitely tell that there is more to that story, and I can't help but be curious to find out who the oh-so-famous Katniss actually is because I can already infer from Gale that Peeta might not be the one she really loves. Disregarding my previous covenant with myself, I'm hopeful that I am just one step closer to Bree.

Gale's rough voice brings me back to reality. "I know this might be far-fetched, but you really look like the District 1 tribute from this year."

Crap. By having restored my physical appearance nearly to the way it was during the Games, I have made myself totally recognizable. Which was President Snow's biggest no-no.

For some strange reason, though, I trust this guy. "Well, _that's _a funny story, too."

It takes a good minute to register, but he realizes what I am hinting at and a sort of unspoken bond passes between us.

He slaps my back in a friendly way and talks knowingly to his shoes. "Ah," Gale says under his breath. "Talk to me."

Veering away from the mines, away from responsibility, we stroll into the dying meadow. "I was thinking—rather, hoping," I begin, wary of other listeners that might carry the message back to Snow. "That there might be a way to stand up to them."

"Them?" He ponders, thick eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"You know who I'm talking about."

He nods his head violently. "Right. And how exactly do you suppose we go about that?"

A fervent pinch of fiery hope is tints my voice. "Well, I mean, Katniss could just be the spark of this whole thing. Think about it; the Girl on Fire—a meager peasant from 12—rebelling against the entire, corrupt Capitol in just one act that was so simple, and yet so catalytic. If she alone can do it, why can't the rest of Panem."

Gale raises a condescending eyebrow at my hope. "You know, you're an awfully huge dreamer."

"Comes in handy," I say sarcastically.

"We have no forces, no weapons, nothing. It's going to be nearly impossible to even graze the Capitol with our bullets."

"We don't really need any of that just yet," I respond, voice elevating in frustration and elation at the very strong possibility of a new Rebellion occurring. "All we need is unity for this common cause."

He stares at me blankly. "It'll never work, kid."

I wince at that last word, because I am clearly the same age as him. "You've got to trust me, Gale."

"And why should I?"

I grasp his shoulders firmly in all seriousness. "Because you know that all it takes is a spark."


	5. Chapter 5: Bree

Peeta hugs me endearingly as I breathe deeply to take in the clean scent of freshly-fallen snow sifting through the wintry air. Fluffy snowflakes land on my black fur coat and hat and litter his eyelashes.

"Isn't this beautiful?" I ask in amazement for the fat white flakes falling all around us. It's winter now, and I have lived with Peeta ever since that one fateful night I had visited him. (His parents don't mind my presence, considering I do extra work around the house.) He pampers me, but I still feel as though I am an extra burden thrust upon him and his family. We try to be secretive about our little arrangement, taking care not to head out into the open together—except for now, where we sit on the icy steps of his back porch.

He looks at me under snowflake-draped lashes. "You've never seen snow?"

"We didn't have snow in District 1," I say quietly, touching my leather-gloved hand to the white ground. "I'd heard about it, but never actually witnessed it. It's much more beautiful than they said it was!"

Peeta laughs softly. "It's a pain sometimes; back before the Games, it was a hassle if there was a blizzard going on while you were trying to get to the Hob to trade bread for meat."

I close my eyes and try to imagine this; Peeta, eating only bread, but his bones aching for what little bit of protein they could receive, be it squirrel or deer. "I don't want to imagine you hungry."

"You saw me hungry during the Games."

He's right. We were all so hungry during the Games, but us Careers got plenty more to eat than the rest of the tributes. They starved while we feasted on succulent dried jerky and fruits.

I drop my gaze. "I know."

"It's okay," he says quietly. "I'm not mad at you or anything." He takes my hand lovingly and kisses it. "You're the only thing that's made my life somewhat bearable in these few months."

A rosy blush rises through my face. "Katniss…"

He falls silent for a while, and then mutters quietly. "Let's not talk about her, please."

The blush turns to frustration. Every time I bring her up, it's like he's afraid to talk about her, as though she has super-sonic hearing capable of picking up even the slightest mention of her name. I keep my mouth shut though, since it _is _a touchy subject for him.

The wind picks up, sending Peeta's floppy blond hair this way and that. His voice is heartbreakingly tragic as he nearly sings, "Everything I am now is just a remnant of the Hunger Games."

Until now, I had almost forgotten the tragedy of the wretched thing. I had almost forgotten my allegiance to Marvel. I had almost forgotten the dead bodies of innocent kids, horrifyingly cold and lifeless on the plush grass. I had almost forgotten little Rue, so fresh and young with her life stolen so soon. I had almost forgotten my best friend, Rhiannon, back in District 1; my twin siblings, Olive and Vernon. I had put everything that had etched such importance in my mind behind me. In this very second, however, it has all rushed back to the front of my discombobulated brain. The pain of remembrance hits me like a brick wall.

I will miss my brother and sister's birthday.

I will miss warm, sunny days drinking lemonade on Rhi's porch.

I will miss everything I knew.

I've finally realized that being with Peeta is merely an antidepressant to me; simply a painkiller for the imminent disaster I will become.

And I know he feels the same way about me. He said I was the only thing that made his life "somewhat bearable."

We exchange a long glance, speaking to each other with eyes that tell their own stories. A soft tear rolls down his smooth cheek and his voice makes a choked, unnerving sound. "I never showed you all of my paintings."

"You showed me the ones of flowers and stuff…"

"That's not all."

Peeta takes my hand and guides me up the stairs to the top floor of the house, into the sole room on this floor. He closes the door gently and turns on the electricity, allowing me to fully absorb the room.

This room was once filled with warm memories and captivating paintings, but both are gone now. He and I used to sit here on late, temperate fall days, sunlight shining off of warm skin and countless hairs. I would watch him in fascination as he drew and painted beautiful, realistic images of raindrops and flowers; everything kind, sweet, and gentle. Everything I thought was Peeta. It is now, however, both figuratively and literally cold; illuminated only by the glow of the fluorescent light and the clouded sunlight from the bay window peering out into the snow-consumed front yard. The room itself is empty except for the many paintings sitting on their easels in the corner of the room, covered by a huge, cream-colored tarp.

"I don't understand," I mumble.

He furiously rips the tarp from the paintings, scattering the visible dust motes everywhere around us. "Look!" Peeta exclaims, reaching to grab my wrist and gently pushing me in front of the despicable paintings. On them are terrifyingly vivid images of the Games and Katniss—she is inscribed everywhere on canvas and in his mind. An image of Cato being pulled apart limb by limb by the muttations; a psychedelic one of Peeta and Katniss in the warm glow of the cave as she stoops over him; portraits of Katniss in the trees, holding Rue, on the ground, in the water, _everywhere._ And in one of his collage-style paintings, a fleeting image of me—but one that is not able to be missed—rain-drenched and sitting huddled in a black tent.

"Now that you've seen these," he begins, almost pushed to anger. "_Try _and tell me that what I said isn't true. I dare you."

I can't even meet his eyes. "I don't think that me staying here is good for you."

"I was afraid to show you these. I didn't think you would understand."

"Oh, I fully understand. I understand how scarred you are by the Games. I should me more emotionally destroyed too, but for some reason, I'm not. You shouldn't hold on to anything that reminds you of the Games," I whisper softly, my voice carrying through the air of the small room and bouncing off the walls. "And that includes me."

He tilts my chin upward to look at him. "Bree, I love you. You have to believe me. I don't want you to just leave me here. You have become such a part of me now that if you leave, it'll just leave an even bigger hole in my heart." His voice is pleading, begging so much that I become irritated beyond reproach.

I shove myself off of him as hot, fiery tears roll down my cheeks. "Listen to yourself, Peeta! How can you say that, when you barely knew me? I'll tell you why: you're using me to fill the 'hole' that Katniss left in your heart. You've always used me for that; before you knew she 'loved' you and after she left you!" My eyes search his face, looking for some signs of remorse—some sign that what I said had the possibility of a smidge of untruthfulness, but I find only that same blank stare he gets whenever I mention_ her _name.

And I know I'm right.

His mouth barely moves as he pleads, "Please, Breelle. Don't say that."

"You didn't deny it."

"I've learned to love you in the past few months…"

I shake my head ruefully. "Only because I'm here…and I'm not her."

"Don't," he begs again, blond brows crinkling together in pain. "Don't leave. You've been my only friend."

"And that's all I'll ever really be to you, isn't it?" I ask, echoing his same tone. "I can't make your depression go away forever. It'd be so selfish of me to stay here and let you keep having to paint these—" I pause to gesture to the increasingly disturbing paintings, "—in order for you to temporarily stop having nightmares. It'll never work."

"You really _don't _understand," Peeta mutters. "Where will you go if you leave? Who will take care of you? Did you ever ask yourself that?"

"I'll figure something out," I reply, backing out of the room to go and pack my things. He follows me to the room, lost for words, until I begin to take off the matching black fur coat and hat that he bought for me with his winnings.

He puts his large hands on my shoulders, keeping the coat in place. "Keep it. Please." A perplexed look crosses my face, and he goes on to explain. "I hope someday it'll remind you that I really _do _love you. Maybe you'll come back…"

I shake my head. "No, I can't. You'll be living happily ever after with Katniss in a few months, mark my words."

He stares at me for an agonizingly long second, grabs my face with his comfortingly familiar hands, and kisses me in a pained manner, like this is our last kiss (which it most likely is). My hands reflexively travel up his spine and smooth themselves against the soft, wool fabric of his sweater. Our closed lips tumble clumsily over one another's, attempting to savor the last bit of closeness we'll have with each other. When we pull away, he presses his forehead against mine. "I shouldn't let you leave."

"It's for the best," I breathe heavily, both in shock and in exhilaration. "You need to let me go. For me, please."

As I stand on Peeta Mellark's front porch, I once again find myself walking away from the boy I love. The boy I _really_ love; at least enough to put aside my selfish nature for once and let him have what's best for him. I throw my backpack full of sensible clothing and items Peeta bought for me over my shoulder and trudge through the snow in my waterproof anorak boots, each step filling me with dread, and yet, the feeling that I've done the right thing for once.

As much as it pains me, as much as I would've loved to stay with him, I realize that this is Panem, and I'm a citizen of District 12…

There is no fairytale ending.


	6. Chapter 6: Bree

The cold wind nips at my face, my lips undoubtedly turning a light shade of blue.

I hold out my emaciated, leather-gloved hands in a cupped fashion. "Please sir, a few coins?" I ask a man from the Seam—I can tell because of his appearance. His face is covered in coal soot, like everything else in this pitiful District.

"You honestly think I'm a' spare my money for _you_? Please! I can barely make enough money to support my own family. Get lost," he complains, spitting in my face.

Times are rough. No one wants to give a homeless teenage girl money when they can't even make enough to sustain themselves. The first few weeks were easy; I milked sorrow out of some older Merchant women, who gave me bread, and I could trade it at the Hob sometimes for strawberries and other small foods. I also got sympathetic—and flirtatious looks from the Peacekeepers, who would give me a few coins here and there. Especially Cray. He's always been quite fond of me.

Now, though, I barely receive anything. Except what Peeta gives me. Every day since his tour ended he travels to find me sitting here, on the dirty steps of the Hob, to give me a small sack of coins. Every day he brings me little cookies and pastries to eat. Every day he comes here and we just sit together, not speaking a word to each other. Once he's satisfied, which usually takes about thirty minutes, he leaves. And every day, right after he leaves, I give away his offerings. I give them to some of the poorer people in the Hob, even though I have myself to worry about. But no longer will I be selfish.

Peeta hasn't shown up yet today, which is a first as far as I can say. So I sit, alone, until Cray walks up behind me and squats over me, petting the back of my head. "Are you still looking for money?"

This time, I don't shudder at his implications, and I don't shrug off his wrinkled hand which now rests on my shoulder. Instead, my lips mindlessly make the word "yes."

"Well," he sniffs, straightening up. "What's in it for me?"

My heart breaks, as I had hoped I would never be at the point where I had to lower myself to this. I take a deep breath, and muster, "Anything you'd like."

Cray picks me up by the arm, and purrs disgustingly into my ear in his District 12 accent. "There, there. If you just imagine I'm like your little boyfriend…"

"Hey!" He is interrupted. I don't recognize the voice, so my head whips around to see a boy version of Katniss. Straight, shaggy black hair, stormy grey eyes. And yes, handsome. I am internally extremely thankful for his intervention. He nudges at me. "Leave 'er alone, Cray."

Cray loosens his grip on my arm, looks at the boy, looks at me, and shrugs as he walks away to the next starving girl to appease his pleasures.

The boy and I exchange a long glance at each other as we stand about ten feet apart. He is staring at me, no doubt scoffing at my haggard appearance, but then I remember that everyone in 12 looks like this. I used to be one of the lucky ones when I had Peeta. Then, the boy walks cautiously over to me and throws a freshly-killed squirrel wrapped in black cloth to my hands. I look at him quietly and mouth the words, "Thank you."

He starts to walk off. "You're welcome. Just be careful, ya hear? Streets aren't any place for a girl like you."

"Wait!" I call after him. "What's your name?"

He looks at me carefully, and continues to walk away.

I slump back on the steps, wishing I could hunt like him. Like Katniss. I wish I was as mentally strong as her. I wish I had her will—her mindset. She's so daring and I've always sort of gone with the flow of life. To my demise, actually.

After few minutes of begging, I notice a large group forming to the north of the Hob. Rubber-soled feet shuffle noisily around the center of this circle, and I decide to get up and move to see what is going on. Which ends up being a terrible, terrible idea.

You would think that after all I've been through, I would be used to death and gore. But this is too much.

The boy who had just shown me a shred of kindness is kneeling on the platform of the Justice Building, hands and feet tied and shirtless with a hardened look upon his face. A Peacekeeper clothed in the traditional Peacekeeper garb stands over him, and then I realize that I don't recognize his foreign face, which looks a lot like that of someone from 3 with its straight nose and thick brows. His muscular arm is raised with whip in hand. Suddenly I remember Marvel, how he said that the Capitol whipped him every day when he was their slave. Because of me. Is that why this boy is in his situation? Was it because he was caught after having slowed down to give me illegally-poached meat?

Once the offence is announced, he admits to his crime, but undermines it by saying his kill had strayed inside the fence. He doesn't mention the squirrel he gave me.

"Gale Hawthorne, for illegal poaching Capitol property, you are hereby sentenced to a punishment of thirty-five lashes. So says the Justice of the Capitol. Long live the Capitol!" The new Peacekeeper waves his arms violently at the crowd in order for them to recite the traditional phrase. Instead, a very faint, extremely familiar four-note whistle that only one with exceptional hearing could detect slips through my ears.

He ignores the silence, and begins lashing Gale. With each lash, my brain hurts worse and worse. I'm beginning to think that there is no such thing as mercy in this world, that there will never be anything but evil. And now we are only at twelve lashes.

Time stretches forever as I count each lash, like a cruel form of counting while stretching in dance class. _Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen... _Each interval gets longer and longer as the crack of the whip and Gale's desperate screams fill the air.

_Twenty seven, twenty eight, twenty nine…_ Darius, one of the pre-established Peacekeepers, runs to the platforms, crying, "That's enough, that's enough!" He seizes the new Peacekeeper's arm and shoves him away from Gale, but in a swift, almost undetectable move, the Peacekeeper hits Darius with the butt of the whip, sending him flying into the crowd and onto the ground. The beating continues.

I close my eyes and cry silently because Gale passed out at around thirty lashes, and we are already at forty when the smooth, clear voice that I recognize well moves through the crowd. "No!"

It's Katniss.


	7. Chapter 7: Marvel

The snow starts to fall for the first time in weeks. I'm not used to the excruciatingly long, cold, brutal winter here in 12, but it's all worth it to see Madge. I had promised her last night to bring her some game that I knew I would catch today. We were supposed to meet on the north side of the Hob to complete our deal as always: a small catch for a looped-armed walk in the cold. We talk about everything some days, and other days, nothing at all. Just her company is enough to keep me content with the robotic life I'm living. She and Gale have been my only companions since Bree left me.

Oddly enough, I am looking forward to our walk today. I want to tell Madge more about District 1, which she is always so fascinated to hear about. At the same time, I just want to see her. She's cute. Could probably pass for a rather plain District 1 girl. But she exudes this sort of quiet strength that one can't help but be drawn to. She listens and I speak mostly, but from what I do know about her, she is sixteen years old. Her favorite color is sky blue. She's Mayor Undersee's daughter, she likes strawberries, and has a newfound, secret fondness for quail and squirrel meat. She's shy, and likes to listen. And she likes Gale. A lot.

I stroll quickly from the south to the north side of the Hob, but am lost in the crowded square between the Hob and the Justice Building. I get a faint glance of a boy about my age on the platform of the Justice Building, and move my way through the crowd because I recognize his leather satchel sitting at the feet of the Peacekeeper holding a whip over the boy. Because I have the same small satchel tossed over my shoulder, which I throw to the ground. Because the boy is my friend.

I realize this in the split second that, as I continue to angrily shove people in the crowd aside, I see the whip fly over the new Peacekeeper's head. I am sprinting to the front now, as the leather tip of the whip angrily tears strip by strip of flesh off of Gale's bare back. I don't know how to stop this. Gale may be a pain sometimes, but he's always been my friend, the man of action in my plan for the Rebellion. And if it were me being whipped—which it very likely may have been—he would've intervened and tried to help me.

I am literally frozen as I stand at the very front of the hushed crowd now. Gale's screams are everywhere around me; no, they aren't just around me. They are _in _me, resonating throughout my body and mind, and I feel his pain. I feel the whip slashing the smooth skin off of my back, the crimson blood streaming from my body. I feel what I did to Rue. I feel what the other innocent tributes I had killed in the arena had felt. I feel the pain of the entire nation of Panem, and in this exact moment, I know that the Rebellion Gale and I had planned for so long is right. That it needs to come to fruition even sooner than planned.

My eyes search everywhere for Madge so that I can tell her about my new resolve. When I finally catch sight of her in the distance, standing beside her father, her eyes grow wide. I make my way over to her and her to me. Wordlessly, we wrap our arms around each other. This is the only comfort we can give each other. My only solace in this time of chaos is in my friend Madge's arms. Her silent sobs quake softly through the canvas-y material of my jacket, her face buried into my shirt and hands balled in fists around the fabric. I've never seen her so torn up, so distraught, but I will tell you that it is the most upsetting, unnerving thing I have ever seen. She looks up at me, tears streaming down her pale but frost-bitten cheeks, basically begging for me to take her away from the scene. I agree with her silently as she takes my hand.

We leave after about fifteen or twenty lashes, her clammy palm gripping mine firmly, and we run off to my house in the Seam. I lead her inside the humble shack, taking care to lock the door just in case of potential eavesdroppers.

She crumples silently to the splintered hard-wood floor, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed over bent knees. I sit beside her. "What would your dad do if he knew you were here in the Seam?" I whisper ever-so-softly, even though everyone is out watching the lashing.

Madge closes her eyes and tilts her head up towards the ceiling. "I don't know. He'd hate it. He wants me to marry a merchant."

"He doesn't have a clue about me, about where you disappear every day during lunch?"

"No."

"Not even an idea?"

"No," she repeats, a tear streaming down her face.

I scoot closer to her. "What about…?" She knows I mean Gale, but I can't bring myself to say his name after all we had seen today.

"No one but you," she affirms, but then continues. "And I think Katniss… But he loves her, not me." Madge says curtly.

"What makes you so sure?"

She looks at me firmly now, eyes narrowing. A painfully familiar tone is in her voice, one I recognize well because it's the one _I_ use to tell myself a harsh truth. "Don't play dumb, Marvel. I've seen the way he looks at her. I know." The tears drip down her face slowly, leaving a trail of unrequited love seen only from those beautiful eyes. Something that I wish I could be as much at peace with as her. This is why I like Madge. She's got this side to her that no one but me knows about. She doesn't bullshit around anything. I know this isn't the real reason why she's crying though.

I hold her hand. "He'll be okay. Don't worry. Everything will be okay," I say as she leans her head on my shoulder. Then I start to sing, because I don't know what else to do. At first, my voice comes out rusty and cracks, which Madge ignores, but after a while, I hear something I've never heard in myself before. I realize that I've never heard myself sing. My voice grows louder as I sing the only words from an old Rebellion folk song I knew from when I was a child:

_And The Mockingjay, The Mockingjay;_

_ It's song was long gone_

_ When it flew away._

_ But someday soon, we will cry to the moon_

_ To sing and tell all of the song_

_ Of the Mockingjay…_

The uninhibited beauty of each note I sing fills the small cabin and echoes off of the walls. And then something completely unexpected happens.

A black and white Mockingjay lands outside the window facing me and repeats the same melody I had just sang.

There might still be some hope left for Panem after all.


	8. Chapter 8: Bree

"And now we honor our third Quarter Quell," the president's voice blares over Madge's television as a little boy dressed completely in white raises an ancient wooden box above his head, opening it slowly. My eyes stay fixed upon the rows of sealed yellow envelopes; there are so many that it's clear the original deviser of the Hunger Games was expecting it to last for many, many years. It feels like an eternity before President Snow unseals the envelope to reveal a square piece of paper. His puffy, grayish lips pucker slightly as he reads, "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors."

Madge looks at me wide-eyed, brows drawn together in anguish for me. My body is frozen to the plush, velvet couch I sit on, but my fingernails dig so deeply into my skin that blood droplets form from the marks.

My first thought above anything, above anyone else is Peeta Mellark. His bright white, infectious smile. His beautiful, dreamily blue eyes. His laugh. His paintings. His long eyelashes. Everything about him, gone in the half-a-minute it took for Snow to announce his demise. There's only three victors still alive from District 12; one female and two male. Where Katniss goes, Peeta will inevitably follow. Which means he will die.

An animalistic scream of pure rage emits from the back of my throat as Madge tries to calm and comfort me. She shakes my shoulders violently and is raising her voice at me to get me to stop screaming hysterically, but her voice is muffled to me as my vision takes on a red tint—just like when Cato stabbed me. My shrieking drowns out the sound of the National Anthem and the hard thud of parental footsteps running down the stairs. It drowns out my common sense and human rationale. All I can hear and see and feel is fiery-hot, venomous anger pulsing through my veins and clouding my vision as I sprint from Madge's house, where I've been staying for two weeks, to somewhere only my subconscious wills me to go.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm standing in front of his house. My heart thumps wildly as I step onto the porch and bang repeatedly on the wooden door. I can hear his bare feet shuffling slowly across the floorboards. He opens the door so quickly it almost slams me in the face.

The emotions pass on Marvel's face: first surprise, then curiosity, then something a normal person would consider anger but is really his normal temperament towards me. "What?" He asks, eyelids fluttering in frustration. I haven't seen him in months, but now I see that that time period can change everything. He is over a foot taller than me, his chest broad and extremely well-defined like that of a grown man. His dark, curly brown hair is cut short again, but a short, scruffy beard still covers his jaw. His face has lost the soft teenage fluff in its cheeks, and his entire essence screams "mature." The shock of the drastic change in his appearance leaves me speechless for a moment.

He repeats, "What are you doing here?"

I manage to calm myself enough to say, "Peeta…" At this, Marvel huffs in frustration and begins to close the door on me, which I stop with my foot. "Did you watch the television?"

"No…"

"Please let me in," I ask, breathing heavily. "It's cold."

He looks at me for a long moment, brows furrowed in consideration. He finally decides, nodding his head behind him to the inside of our old home. I walk in and close the door behind me, looking around at the humble shack and wondering what might've been. I could be living happily here, married to Marvel and raising fat, pretty babies. Except I wouldn't be happy. I've never really wanted anything but Peeta, and now I can't even save him.

"The Quarter Quell…they're choosing victors as tributes…Katniss will go...and Peeta will go to protect her just because he loves her…"

Marvel just stares at me for a second and crosses his arms, flexing his enormous biceps. "I thought he loves you."

My eyes drop. "Please don't talk to me about that. Please."

"Whatever."

"What do I _do_ Marvel?" I cry, my palm sliding up to my feverish cheeks as to wipe away the tears pouring from my eyes like a waterfall.

His temper flares up at me again. "I don't _know _Bree! I have no idea why you came here in the first place!"

"I can't just let him be doomed to death!"

"It's his choice; _you _can't do anything, no matter how hard you try," he says, softening a little bit as he rests his hand on my face. "I've forgotten how pretty you are."

I smack away his hand. "Help me, goddamnit!"

Marvel narrows his eyes at me and reaches for his canvas-like jacket. "I can't do anything for you," he begins, sliding his arm through the sleeve of the jacket. "But what I do know is that I have to see Madge."

"Madge?"

"Yeah, we're friends," he says, "You don't know where she goes every day at lunch?"

To be honest, I never considered it. She just says, "I'm going for a walk," and she's gone for about an hour until she returns, winded with flushed cheeks and nothing at all to discuss. "Not until now," I conclude, mostly to myself. I wonder if they've ever kissed.

He awkwardly shifts from foot to foot. "Well, I guess you do now."

An immeasurable silence passes between us (seems like I've been getting a whole lot of that lately), and I wonder, why _did_ I come here?

Marvel must be able to read my thoughts because he answers, "You expected me to welcome you with open arms…"

My heart drops again, and for the moment, this predicament is more important to me than Peeta, because Marvel and I have unresolved issues. "Well…sorta…"

"…after you left me kneeling on the ground. You literally ran out of that door," he whispers painfully as he shuts his eyelids. "And I loved you."

I am speechless as I try to come up with a legitimate response for my behavior, but then I realize there isn't any. I did leave him kneeling on the floor while he proposed to me. I did run out of the door to leave him for Peeta. And he did love me…He did…

"Don't say anything. I understand how you feel about him. I've grown, too, Breelle," he says, running his hand through the chestnut ringlets on his head, and I realize this is the first time he's ever really said my full name. "I've changed. All I've ever really wanted was your happiness. So go to Peeta. Kiss him and whatever. But please, just be happy."

A sad sigh escapes my lips as I instinctively wrap my arms around him. This shocks him at first, because he stands frozen for about five seconds, but then he melts into me, and holds me close. He holds me closer than we've ever been before in just a simple, innocent hug…and yet it is so much more than that. We are one, and have always been one. He's always been a part of me and me a part of him. In a parallel universe where the Games haven't ever been invented, we would be married right now. I wouldn't love Peeta. Everything could be easy and we would be in District 1, raising the perfect family. But in this world, the Hunger Games _do _exist, and that's why I'm here in the first place. That's why—after everything that's happened, after all the trials and tribulations we've been through—I still ended up in _his _arms, and he ended up holding me. No matter how much I love Peeta, fate will always draw me to Marvel, and that's that.

He tilts his head down to mine, breath growing thin, and I close my eyes while my lips tingle in anticipation for what I am not sure if I want to happen…and then a rush of frigid air hits my face. When I open my eyes and look around the room, he is nowhere to be found. The only trace he's left of himself is the open door to outside.

At first I don't quite understand what's going on until the pain of realization smacks me on the cheek.

He left because he chose Madge over me.


	9. Chapter 9: Bree

The days go by as though in a deep, gray fog. Every day, I am simply existing—never actually living—and still, the dark shroud of what looms ahead for all of us hangs over me and dangles like the last, thinning thread of a string of yarn. The worst possible feeling in the world is knowing that someone you love will die, and not being able to do anything about it. The indescribable loneliness, though you see them and comfort them every day. The unbearable heartache that keeps you awake at night, screaming from night terrors.

That's the situation I'm in right now.

Peeta's house is unusually dark for this time of night. Usually, there is always some sort of dim light peering out of the window. Something is off about this night; the way the mockingjays call nervously in the air, the way the fog hangs thickly on the ground, the way the wet earth moves beneath my feet. Ignoring my hunter's intuition, I knock softly on the dark, smooth wooden door. My breath suspends as I wait to hear the telltale muffled thuds of Peeta's footsteps. Instead, I hear the slow, pensive steps of someone unfamiliar to me. The door swings open, and I let out an unexpected gasp at its opener.

Standing before me is a small, pale man with puffy, grayish lips and slick white hair. Standing before me is President Snow.

"Hello, Breelle," he says, a smile slithering across those revolting lips. My mouth opens slightly and a small choked sound comes from the back of my throat. "What a pleasant surprise!"

The hair on my arms and the back of my neck immediately rises as my defensive instincts kick in. "Um, hi."

He eyes me up and down and clears his throat. "Yes, well…please, do come in! My house is yours."

I don't bother pointing out that this house belongs to Peeta.

But then again, everything belongs to the Capitol.

I take a cautious step inside the door and notice that the portraits of Panem's presidents have been taken down, except for the one of Snow. He puts a petite, withered hand on the small of my back, guiding me to the living room where three Capitol guards sit.

"Where's Peeta?" I ask nervously, hand reaching inside my pocket to feel for the sharp letter-opener I had stolen from Mayor Undersee's desk. "Where's his family?"

"Out," he replies, picking up a printed coaster from the end table and setting it back down again.

I am furious. "What did you do to them?" I scream, drawing the letter-opener and holding it up threateningly. "If you hurt them, so help me—"

Snow laughs quietly and lowers my hand. "I told you, they are out. We are not going to harm Mr. Mellark's family…yet…"

"Yet?"

He breathes deeply. "When the time comes…"

"I won't let you!"

"Do you know why I'm here, Bree?" Snow says, voice slightly elevated. "Well? Do you?" I shake my head and he continues. "Because I know something. I know that your 'friend' Marvel is involved in something he shouldn't be. And I'm here to cease his involvement."

I know exactly what he's talking about. He's talking about the Rebellion. Marvel has had very brief and sly communication with other Districts through Madge's father's office. He goes there every now and then to check up on things, to incite Districts to rebel against the Establishment. At least that's what Gale's told me.

"How would you know?" I ask.

He blinks slowly and breathes; I can smell blood on his breath. "You don't think I'm _that _stupid, do you? Did you really have the audacity to believe that I would allow two tributes that have contact with the very people who started this all to live and simply be let free to do as they please?" Snow adjusts his lapel and presses something on the genetically-altered red rose pinned to it. Suddenly, a splitting headache pierces my brain.

"Make it stop! Please!" I beg, falling knees-first to the ground and clutching my head in agony.

He presses the button again and smiles. "Isn't it beautiful? The tracking device I inserted inside you both, I mean. If I press this button, I can locate you _and _Mr. Corvan."

I glance down at the blinking blue light inside the thin flesh of my arm. "No…" I mutter. This isn't possible.

"Haven't you wondered why you have those sudden headaches and impulsive urges? Like I said darling, the Capitol works wonders."

My head is swimming as I sit back on my feet. Everything is swirling above me. "Did Marvel feel it too?" I ask, still clutching my head.

Snow walks closer and leans over me. The sickening smell of blood on his breath is even stronger now. "He did, actually. And he's probably wondering what in the world is going on…"

I am hyperventilating, my mind racing faster than my heart.

"You, my dear," he says, yanking me up by my wrist, "are our leverage."

Leverage. They are going to use me against Marvel and Gale and Madge. And everyone else. They are going to torture me to get answers out of me; or worse, they will hijack my memories and turn me against everyone and everything I love.

I scream as the peacekeepers pick me up and carry me away by the arms to the dark car parked outside. My body thrashes about violently as I cry, "No! No! The Capitol will be sorry! You'll be _dead_, Snow! Dead!"

I survived the 74th Annual Hunger Games. I survived near-death several times. I watched myself _die_ on television…But this is not the Hunger Games. No; this is something far more treacherous. This is the real world, and by eating the "poisonous berries" of the Rebellion, I have messed with the Game of Life.

This is President Snow's Game, and I am a tribute once again. As the Peacekeepers shove me in the back of the car, I realize that the real Games have only just begun.

**End of Book Two**


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